They call me Lisao. My maiden family grew chestnuts; I married into peaches. The first half of my life was fruit trees. The second half —
The second half starts with a fire. Last month, deep night, the xiao came into our hill-folk hamlet. They didn't steal — they burned. Our shack went up. When my husband dragged me out, I was still hugging half a sack of dried peaches. He called me a fool: nearly dead and still clutching peaches? I said: that's winter food.
Now we're walking to the ravine, to kin. Taogu offered to take us in here. I said no — not because her place isn't good, but because once I settle, I'll never want to move again. At my age you learn one thing: the orchard's gone, I'm not — so I keep walking. Transplant a tree and it dies; transplant a person and they live.